there is an oil slick between waking and dreaming, a rancid film that separates the two worlds
there is a cold spot on the surface of the sun, a lone sanctuary amid the bubbling heat of plasma
Vacancy mixed with the smell of burning flesh. Must be morning and I must have been dreaming again. I shouldn’t pick up a pen while I’m burning. The blue ink spilled effortlessly but I wasn’t able to make everything out through the wisps of honey hair that fell over my face. I felt the phrase turn and I sat still amidst the prepositions and comets, the tear running down my shoulder cut a river through from my aurora to my poet veins.
there are rivers underwater that flow through the water, they are a part of and apart from at once
nature is a misunderstood conglomeration of differing sameness, lost in the transitional tides
I hadn’t had coffee and maybe that’s what moved me hard. Pulse beating through my fingertips, the undulations underneath found their proper place on paper. I was that one river that never made it to the sea. The sky is vast, my mind is lost in the velocity of every stroke, every letter, and in the blue that made my heart beat. Beyond the sun, in that cold dark hell, I hear the river bend.
the magnetic poles begin to make sense, the invisible attractions, secret tides leading to hidden homes
but none of it matters, unless she is waiting at the end of the trail, as i flash through possibilities, seeking her
I never saw the dusk arrive. I felt it though, across my unwashed face and unkempt hair. Only morning remembers and what I had left to do would only smell like apathy. Bleeding ink, the curse of a poet and the nightcap for the damned. But like a fork in the road, with words like bruises, I saw the bloody end, Tangible, red and running off my lips. And for the first time, I felt like home
EC is what dreams aspire to be, every new verse of hers makes love to my brain.